Chapter 8 The Son of the Sea
Theon was drunk. Too drunk to remember things.
His last memory was in an alehouse. He seemed to recall a band of men capturing him. His body hurt, he seemed to have been beaten. He noticed the bands on his wrists. Lines of faces were watching from either side. The tall white candles shone an eerie light. Flickers of flame danced around with shadows and smoke, like demons. Like ghosts. The light hurt his head. He felt like he was in a deep pit.
Everything seemed queer, like a painting with too bright colors. The men above him, sitting behind a tall table were wearing cloaks too black, their faces too white. And their lips, their lips were red and thin to a grotesque, redder than blood, redder than fire.
Those lips were moving with a sternness and coldness. The syllables of his names were mentioned. Theon Greyjoy moved his head and recognized Robb Stark. 'Robb…'he muttered.
'The prisoner has awoke.' Robb's figures were twisted, like a tormented soul. He sat in a tall chair with two other shadows, one pale, one dark. Above them the statues of the Stark Direwolves hissed and snarled at him, the cold stone statues coming to life in his drunkenness.
'To your feet, Greyjoy!' a large shadow roared. He lacked the strength and was pulled roughly to his feet. He saw the three men on the high table. Robb Stark, Queen Roslin and the Blackfish.
'Theon of House Greyjoy, you are wanted for high treason and desertion. How do you answer to the crimes?' His voice rang over and over and over in his brain, driving him mad.
'I…' he had prepared something to speak but was too drunk to remember.
'It is evident you tried to flee,' said the Blackfish, 'and I saw you chatting with Roose Bolton before his left. How do you answer to this evidence?'
'I… I did what I should… I…' Theon was frightened. The tall white candles suddenly grew grotesque, too bright for him too look at, almost frightening, demons with heads of flame.
'The subject appears to be incapable of speech,' said Brynden Tully.
'If the accused is incapable of defending himself he is guilty,' said Robb, as the lines of faces to either side of him murmured agreement. Their voices rattled through his head like the echoes in an empty room. Guilty, guilty, guilty, the voices went, guilty…
He means to kill me, thought Theon in a fit of panic. He couldn't die, he didn't want to die, he couldn't die so far from the sea… how would he make his way to the halls of the Drowned God? 'Robb, please… mercy…' Theon begged through unmoving lips.
Robb was unyielding. 'A traitor is a traitor,' said Robb Stark, the King in the North. His red lips writhed with deadly locution, the decree of his death issuing out of those lips.
'Mercy… Roslin, tell him… I don't want to die,' Theon mumbled to Roslin.
Roslin was horrified. 'My love, you don't actually mean to execute him, do you?'
'It is evident he has tried to flee. He is a deserter and a traitor.'
'But what use is it, Your Grace?' Roslin was begging Robb. What a good girl, thought Theon drunkenly. 'Think of my poor sister… she is betrothed to him, she loves him…'
'He is a co-conspirator of Bolton, we have evidence now. He is a traitor, no mercy may be shown to traitors.' Robb leaned over his chair and kissed Roslin's cheek. 'I am sorry, but he must die.'
'But what good will be achieved of it, Your Grace? Why would you do this?'
'Because I want to,' Robb snarled, sounding as harsh as he looked in Theon's eyes.
Roslin sat back in her chair and looked at Theon, very scared.
'Theon Greyjoy, I, Robb of the House Stark, King of the North and of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell do hereby sentence you to death for high treason and desertion.' Robb at Theon. Obvious repulsion went through his eyes. 'This beast is not worth of death by sword,' said Robb, 'gather a squad and shoot him with crossbows.'
Crossbows? Crossbow was no honorable death. 'Sword…' Theon begged. 'Please…'
His plea was ignored. The straps bounding his wrists were freed. He was pushed outside the gates roughly by two men.
The bright sunlight outside hurt his eyes. The cold wind smashed into him like a wall, catching him off balance, all the blood of his body coming up to his face. The sky was very blue, blue like Roslin's eyes, and the sun was very white. He stopped and blinked. A soldier behind him drove the butt of his spear into Theon's knee. He fell to the floor writhing with pain.
'Walk, Greyjoy!' A voice commanded him. Ser Rodrik Cassel, he thought.
Slowly he pushed himself to his feet and walked forwards, the Stark soldiers to his back, through the yard of Winterfell. A perimeter had been set around the yard, and many men were around watching. He saw a few children playing 'come into my castle' nearby with only a wooden plank. He smiled, remembering how he used to play the game as well when he was young.
If only I could be seven again. I'm too damn old.
Slowly Theon walked through the length of the yard, enjoying the sunshine as much as he could, for he knew this was his last chance. The gravel on the floor made noises as he shuffled along.
'Halt,' he heard a voice command. He stopped and turned. A line of Stark Guardsmen stood behind him, all with crossbows in hand, loaded and pointed at his chest. Theon realized he was about to die. Hastily he fastened the clasp on his coat, trying to look more presentable for his death.
He raised his hand in a salute and screeched, 'what is dead may never-'
He never got to finish the sentence. He screamed as he plunged down into the eternal darkness.